


Him: Where it all went wrong

by TwigsofManyFaces



Category: Chloroformal Attire, Dex - Fandom, Not A Hero - Fandom, Superhero - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, M/M, Multi, not a Hero
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-14 12:43:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16492832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwigsofManyFaces/pseuds/TwigsofManyFaces
Summary: Peter's childhood, maturity, career, and involvement with Calister





	1. Parents

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Not A Hero](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/429710) by Distressed-mess. 



_ When I look back on the happiest moments of my life, he’s there. I wish I’d never met him.  _

 

**18 years ago**

_ The first thing I remember is the shag carpet. It was mustard yellow and everywhere. I liked curling it around my fingers whenever I hid behind the couch in the living room. I had to hide a lot in that apartment, especially after dark.  _

Peter held his breath when his father came into the room. He knew the brown slacks and yellowed socks well, with all the time he spent looking out from under furniture. He heard the hiss that followed a can popping open. He tensed when he heard his father slurp and pictured beer foam clinging to a bristly mustache. The loud snap as his father straightened out the newspaper made him clench his hands into fists. Peter’s shoulders lowered as the sipping, page turning, and throat clearings took on a familiar rhythm. 

“This is what I pay taxes for?” Peter looked up, gaze drawn to the almost-black streaks of varnish that reached the underside of the table. It was hexagonal, with four legs and a central support. The dark wood had always seemed sturdier to him -- safer. It was comfier to sprawl behind the couch, but he only did that when his mother was home. She knew how to keep his father’s attention, how to steer him away from delivering the harshest punishments.

Peter dug his toes into the shag and rested his chin on his knees. He was hungry, but there was no question about leaving his shadowed corner. Sometimes it was fun to pretend that he was in a fort, or a cave, and that the lamplight spilling down around the table was sunshine. When the furnace cycled on, the vent in the corner made his hiding place the coziest spot in the apartment.

He frowned when he smelled ham. He could see the chipped plate overhead, with two rolls on top. His father always bought the ones with the blackened onion slivers on top. Sundays always meant ham, thin sliced, hot, and foil-wrapped. Like the rolls, the ham was fresh from the store. His nose wrinkled at the thought of mustard whenever he heard his father chewing a bite of sandwich.

Then something tiny brushed against his cheek and nearly went into his eye. Peter shrieked and kicked as the moth bumped around him, the urge to flee shattering his dedication to silent invisibility. The table rocked and unsteadily but he didn’t notice the sound of the lamp tipping onto its shade. If his father swore, he missed that too.

The world turned upside down as he was suddenly wrenched from under the table. He huddled in on himself in his father’s grasp. He squeezed his eyes shut as his father shook him, unable to think of anything but the slaps he was about to get. He squeaked in surprise as he dropped to the floor, then looked up at the sound of metal tinkling. His mouth fell open as he watched his father remove his belt. He’d seen his mother running away from such a beating, but he’d never been on the receiving end of one. He whimpered as he remembered the echoing pleas and sharp smacks he’d heard.

He was yanked to his feet before he could even attempt to run. The belt slapped white hot against his bare legs, just shy of his Mighty Mouse underpants. His scream caught in his throat until the second slap fell and then he couldn’t stop. He screamed, his father yelled. He was thrown to the floor and tried to run, still screaming, only to be snatched back by the arm. The slaps rained down again, raising more welts on the backs of his legs and butt. All he could do was scream and sob, and try to run away each time he was dropped. Over and over and over.

Peter didn’t see his mother so much as he felt her body, solid and shielding between him and his father. He scrambled away then, with only the barest impression of his mother shoving his father across the room and yelling. His mother was short, but she was stocky and had hard muscles from her work at the restaurant. 

He closed the door to his room and crawled under the bed, his breath coming in heaving gasps while tears ran down his cheeks. His own screams reverberating off the box spring slats made his ears sting, but he couldn’t stop. Terror blotted out the pain, filling up the space between his bed and the door. He waited for the door to open. He waited and waited and waited.

“My baby.” Until her voice woke him. Exhaustion was a constant in his mother’s voice, but her voice sounded thick somehow, too. Peter crawled to her hands and clung on as she scooped him into her arms. “My poor baby. I’m so sorry, baby. Mama’s sorry.” He buried his face in his mother’s nightgown and breathed in her scent, his body softening with every word she spoke. He was aware then, wrapped around her as he was, that his feet could almost touch behind her back. He squeezed her harder as he recoiled from the realization.

He didn’t protest when she carried him out to the living room. It was dark, save for the television glow. His mother settled on the couch, laying down with him tucked against her. It took time for Peter to hear with the volume turned so low, but he whined when he recognized the cadences of the sports announcers. He hated football. It was one of the few times she would cuddle with him anymore, but whenever she cursed a fumble or cheered a touchdown he started, breath caught high in his chest.

What kept him there was her smell and the way she rubbed his back. Even if he had to reach for her hand and set it on his back whenever she stilled, back rubs were his favorite. If it weren’t for the ups and downs of football, her touch would’ve put him to sleep every time.

...

The next time Peter opened his eyes, he was in his own bed. He worried the satin trim on his blanket and frowned up at the ceiling. His eyes burned with tears, but he didn’t let himself cry. He could sense that it was hours later, but it was still dark out -- not a time to get caught making noise. He pulled the blanket over his head and sighed, churning his legs under the covers. He had to wait until his mother was awake. The way her mug rang as she stirred sugar into her tea always called to him. She would make him a cup too if he asked, even though he never took more than a few sips. There were more smiles between them when they both had mugs steaming under their noses.

More often than not, Peter joined her after she was seated at the kitchen table. He would move his chair close to hers and watch her play solitaire. He loved the way the cards flicked against the table as she laid them out, and brush-swish as she thumbed through them three at a time. He knew that she was playing the game for herself, but he loved that she never got upset when he moved cards that she hadn’t noticed. Peter bit his lip sometimes, feeling her smile. That always made him feel warm, like being held. 

He hadn’t mastered laying the cards out to play his own game, but he didn’t make any attempt to. It was the same with those rare breakfast mornings. She said nothing as he brought his chair into the kitchen and pushed it up against the stove, and she handed over the spatula as though she’d been waiting for him to come along. She let him be close when they were alone. He could manage every step of making scrambled eggs now, though he never did. He watched each time she put eggs on a plate for him as though he was seeing it for the first time.

He watched with the same attention when she peeled apples. He didn’t mind eating them with the skin on, but any excuse to be close... She never said a word when he would reach into the sink, catching the peelings as they fell and popping them into his mouth, but there was always that smile that he could feel. 

Peter sat up in bed when he heard a creak in the hall and pushed the covers back when he heard the bathroom vent. Then he froze as he heard the toilet seat clack, followed by a steady, narrow stream falling into the bowl. The roaring flush made him hide under the covers while his heart thumped harder. He held his breath until he heard his father creak back into their bedroom. He didn’t fall asleep again that night.


	2. Sickbed

_You shouldn’t shit where you eat._

**3 years ago.**

 Peter cleared his throat and shifted on the cot, but he didn’t open his eyes. The canvas supporting him might as well have been concrete. But at least he could feel even that much.

 “He lives. Mazel tov.” The relief in her voice was obvious, despite her words.

 “Www...wha happened?” he croaked. His limbs were stiff lead weights. “Kath?”

 “It’s me.” The last thing he remembered hearing was Manticore’s receding footsteps, so her confirmation was welcome. Peter sighed when a cool hand rested on his forehead and let the muscles in his neck go slack. “You were--” He almost smiled, imagining her expression as she groped for tactful words. “It’s good that you’re awake. How do you feel?”

 “Pretty sure I just lost a few of my nine lives.” He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the tremor in his voice. There was no way to take inventory of how bad off he was, not with every inch of his body burning with pain.

 “It looked that way, when I found you.” At least she didn’t sound stern. That was something. He wanted to know was how she’d been able to find him. Manticore had left him to die, and the location wasn’t one associated with the House.

 “W-where’d you bring me?” he asked, then winced. His body wasn’t just protesting his desire to open his eyes and sit up -- his body too spent to do anything but hurt. Peter made himself concentrate on his frustration. Anxiety got you killed.

 “You don’t have to worry.” The cot creaked and the canvas went taut as she perched beside him. He wished he had it in him to curl closer to her, then was grateful that he couldn’t. “No one’s visited this site since the dog fighting rings went down.”

 “Figures that you’d leave me on some straw to die like any other curr,” he teased, trying to blink away gunk.

 “It would serve you right if I did.” When she sighed, he could feel a fist clench under his ribs.

 “Manty was--” Peter winced; even shrugging his shoulder made his body ache. “We worked together. And the payoff was worth the risk.” He sniffed. “ _Would’ve_ been worth the risk.”

 “What the hell happened to you?” Ah, there was the irritation. At last. He couldn’t help smiling.

 “The job was a ‘Supe.” Her sharp inhale made his smile broaden. “I know. I know...”

 “Why did you take it?”

 “‘How could I be so stupid?’” His laugh was little more than a wheeze. “The kid didn’t look like much. I swear.”

 “Yes, clearly he was an easy mark.”

 “I gambled and lost. It happens.”

 “You're a dumbass.” He looked at Kathryn as his vision cleared, then forced his exhaustion away long enough to grin.

 “Yes ma’am.” He waited for a blow to fall. Instead, her hand moved to his cheek, making his stomach clench. “I thought I could take it.” When the plea in his admission didn’t make her pull away, he leaned into her touch. “I miscalculated. It was stupid of me.” The silence that followed was lengthy enough to make him squirm.

 “You almost got yourself killed.” He flinched as she flicked the side of his head; it made his ears ring and his temples throb.

 “Mama tried,” he said, trying to ignore the flare up, “but I never did end up with any sense.”

 “You--” He froze when he felt her thumb brush across his cheek. “You scared me. Big idiot.”

 “...I’m sorry, Kath. You were right. I shouldn’t have taken the job.”

 “Manticore doesn’t look out for anyone but himself. You know that. What were you thinking?” He turned his face away.

 “Do you have to rub it in?” Frowning only made his headache grow. “It’s not like I’d be safer as a House agent, branded and under lock and key like you.” She didn’t hit him. Or leave. Peter shifted on the cot. He shifted again, then sighed. “Is there water?” Another long pause followed. He was on the verge of squirming when something hit him in the side, making him cry out and jump.

“I hope you choke.” He groped for the bottle of water as Kathryn stomped away.

 “...thank you.” He heard the click as a knob turned, but no hinges squeaked after it.

 “Don’t you dare die on me, Peter. Getting rid of bodies isn’t in my job description.” His smile was faint as he closed his eyes and he was too tired to care if she saw it. “I’m fucking serious.”

 “I’ll be good.” He raised one hand to trace an X over his heart, but his arm only trembled and flopped across his chest. He laughed before he could groan, then added, “Scout’s honor.”

 “I have to go.” He pictured he half out the door, switching her weight to her other leg.

 “Duty calls.” He yawned -- at least his body could manage that -- and rested his cheek against the canvas. “Don’ worry. I--” Peter yawned again. “I’ll wait here...”

 He didn’t hear anything else after that.


	3. Fraught

_It ain't easy, being green._

2.5 years ago.

Peter hadn’t heard a text alert, but he checked his phone again anyway, then sighed. He was only a back up this go around, which meant he would only help with transporting the target. Unless he was unlucky. Then he would be in charge of clean up and disposal instead. The thought made his teeth clench as he frowned at his phone. Not that he was averse to blood and gore, or any of other inside bits that ended up on outside surfaces. He just knew that he was adept at getting jobs done in a manner that was both methodical and spotless. He resented having to mop up after drunken butchers -- drunken butchers who would receive a larger cut of the pay.

  
“Asshole,” he muttered, his eyes on the darkened street instead of his phone. Peter hadn’t been able to work for over a month, and then he’d turned down first jobs that had floated his way. It was simple fact that he lacked the capacity to take on his usual work; he’d bowed out early during even light workouts he tackled in an effort to get back in shape. Recovery wasn’t pleasant, but then, neither was two square meals a day of cup ramen with only room-temperature Coors to chase them down.

  
In the end, he’d only agreed to his current assignment because Kath had threatened to cut off his thumbs -- “And more!” -- if he went near her supply of whiskey again without the cash to back up his ample liver threshold.

  
After scanning the sidewalks and parked cars behind him, he found his gaze drifting to the glove box where his last two cigarettes were stowed away. Things were quiet, but there was no way to guarantee they would stay that way, especially not for the length of time it would take to have a smoke. Peter’s nose wrinkled. He was there to reduce risk for the mission success, not to leave behind evidence that he would likely be stuck cleaning up later. He glanced out the driver’s side for another sweep, then tensed when he noticed light coming from a window -- a second-story office window above the hardware store.

  
“Showtime,” he murmured, silencing his phone as he got out of the car. He crossed the street, in no apparent hurry, and circled around to a side entrance marked with “employees only.” The signage was impossible to make out, as something had happened to the flood light above the door.  
He caught the door as it opened and held it wide for the person backing out through it.

  
“Bitch was a lot stronger than she looked.” Elliot’s breath was hot on his ear and he had to resist the urge to recoil. He didn’t need to see Elliot’s face; he was radiating glee, for all that he kept his voice soft. “But not strong enough.” Only training kept him from flinching when Elliot’s wet, gloved hand settled on his shoulder and squeezed. “I’ll bring the good news home while you...sort her out.” And with that, Elliot was gone. Peter disappeared also, but into the store. He needed to take a few steadying breaths before he could will himself to move through the darkness, toward whatever scene his sometime-coworker had left in his wake.

  
...

  
Peter used up most of the supplies he’d brought to tidy Elliot’s mess. He’d muttered curses through the entire “cleaning,” and after loading his car back up hours later, he was sweat-soaked and shaky. His head was pounding with a steady demand for sleep from his entire body, but all he could allow himself was a moment's rest against the side of his car. Once he disposed of all the physical evidence he’d bagged up, he would still need to dispose of everything he’d worn on the job, decontaminate his car, shower, and give an account of his activities before he was done. He closed his eyes and tilted his face up to the starless sky, confident that he had never wanted to fall into a bed as badly as he did now.

  
“Peter?” He was so startled by Cal’s voice that he’d lunged for him. Instead of attacking head-on, he managed to stop himself at gripping Cal by his upper arms.

  
“Cal?” He was too exhausted to keep the shock off his face. “What...?”

  
“I-I’m sorry! I saw your car, and then you, and I wanted--” The fear in Cal’s eyes and the way he tensed made Peter’s stomach clench.

  
“You gave me a scare,” he admitted, forcing a smile. Peter felt a wave of dizziness hit and knew he needed to extricate himself from the area, fast. He started by letting go of Cal and taking a step back toward his car. “That’s all.”

  
“I wasn’t trying to bother you. I can go...” He was surprised by the sudden urge to wrap his arms around Cal, to reassure him.

  
“Don’t.” Peter stuck his hand into his pocket to keep from touching Cal. When his fingers found his keys, he pulled them out in a way he hoped looked casual. “Don’t worry about it. I’m happy to see you.”

  
“You are?” Cal looked so hopeful he wanted to laugh.

  
“I am,” he affirmed. “It’s just, I’m really in the middle of something here.”

  
“Do you need help?” He could tell from the way Cal’s brow creased that he was starting to take in the scene. “You look terrible.”

  
“No, I’m good. It’s just, uh,” Peter shrugged one shoulder, his fake smile shrinking, “it’s been a long day, and I’m helping a friend with something important. Otherwise, I’d--”

  
“You’d stay and talk?” He couldn’t miss what the raised eyebrow meant. It was true, he had disappeared on Cal, even if it hadn’t been on purpose.

  
“I’m not avoiding you, Cal.”

  
“Yes, I can see that...” Peter ran a hand over his face as the world gave a sickening spin and took another step back. He was relieved to feel the side of the car, cool and firm behind him.

  
“I’ve gotta run. I’ll look you up in a few days, okay?”

  
“Uh-huh.”

  
“Or,” he swallowed, trying to give his brain a chance to catch up, “just drop by my place later.”

  
“When?”

  
“Tonight,” Peter replied as he scrambled around to the driver’s side, wanting desperately to drop into a hole in the ground.

  
“Tonight?” That the sarcasm and suspicion were gone from Cal’s voice somehow didn’t register.

  
“Yeah, I’ll see you later, Cal.”


	4. Showers

_After Cal explained what it meant, I agreed, one hundred percent. No bubble butt like his deserved to be without teeth marks._

Later that day.

Peter flopped face down onto his bed, his hair still wet from the shower he’d taken in the locker room at the Garage. He groaned into his pillow when his stomach growled; he knew that not even hunger was motivation enough to become vertical again. Then the doorbell rang.

“Fucking hell...” He pulled a pillow over his head. The bell rang again. “Why? Go away.” About fifteen seconds later, his cell phone buzzed in his pocket and he cursed himself for not turning it off earlier. If it was anyone from work...

_/I can’t give u a blowjob if u don’t let me in/_ Cal’s text made his heart skip a beat. He scrambled off his bed and jogged to the door.

“Cal,” he breathed, drinking in the sight of him. He grinned and pushed the door open wide for him. He couldn't help giving Cal a spanking as he walked by.

“Grabby old man.” Peter chuckled at the way Cal swished his hips as he strolled to the center of the room, pouting.

“It’s your own fault,” he countered as he locked the door. “You strut in here looking like--” His jaw went slack as Cal unbuttoned his shorts and slid them down. It was just far enough to show the thong straps cutting across his hips, but that was more than enough to obliterate every thought in his head.

“You look tired.” 

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” A smile turned up a corner of his mouth as Cal giggled. “Come here. I’ll help you relax.” When he took a step forward, Cal turned, smirked over his shoulder, and sashayed into the bathroom. 

“Ahhn,” he breathed, breaking into a grin as he followed after Cal. He chuckled as he walked in -- Cal was shirtless and bent over the tub, ass sticking out as he took his time adjusting the shower temperature. “Am I dreaming?” He stalked up behind Cal, grabbed two handfuls of him, and squeezed. He bit his lower lip as Cal pressed back into him.

“Take my shorts off?” Peter reached out at once, circling Cal with both arms to get at his zipper, only to find his hand was slapped away. He looked up, brow furrowed as he lowered his hands. “Wha--” Cal was looking back at him again and tapping his lips with a finger. He let out a snort of laughter and got down on his knees. He slid one hand up Cal’s leg and into his shorts as he planted slow, wet kisses on the curve of his waist. He felt goosebumps prickle against his lips so he picked a spot to suck on. He ran a finger across the silky material between Cal’s legs and felt heat between his own as Cal shivered in response.

“Mmmh, baby boy,” he murmured, then bit down on the waist of Cal’s shorts and dragged down. He let the shorts pool at Cal’s ankles while he took his time giving each cheek kisses and nips. He had hooked a finger into a thong strap when Cal giggled.

“Aren’t you a little overdressed for a shower? I want you with me, Petey.” He made a face at the way Cal drew out the y sound in a whine.

“Demanding,” he grumbled, giving Cal a spanking that earned him another giggle.

“Hmph. I guess I’ll just have to get wet and slippery by myself.” In a motion he could only lick his lips at, Cal pulled off his thong and slipped behind the curtain. He shucked off his own clothes and joined Cal in the warm spray. He grinned as Cal turned in his arms to face him; he was already working up a lather between his hands. “Gimmie,” came the demand. Before his brain could piece anything together, Cal’s hands were massaging soap between his legs. 

Peter closed his eyes and groaned, bracing one hand against the wall as Cal worked. The hands cupping and stroking him felt soft, warm, and impossibly slick. 

“That feels ‘mazing,” he mumbled, only managing consonants with an effort.

“Does it?” He could almost see Cal’s simper. “Hmm. I wonder if there isn’t something that you’d like even more.”

“Please yes.” He set his hands on Cal’s shoulders and guided him down. He started as the shower spray hit him full between the legs.

“Rinse first. If you’re going to punish me I want you to do it without washing my mouth out.”

“I’ve got something you can wrap your--” He felt Cal’s hands on his thighs and made the mistake of looking down. His mouth opened as Cal first lapped and then enveloped his tip. He groaned and gripped a fistful of Cal’s hair, urging him to bob his head. Cal obliged and Peter had to concentrate on keeping his knees locked.

He ran his tongue over his teeth when Cal didn’t resist being gagged.

“Fuck,” he groaned, “you’re gonna make me cum.” He groaned again when Cal only swallowed him even deeper. His clenched his fingers to keep Cal from moving away and eased his hips forward. “Uuunh...”

When he could bare to let Cal breathe, the sound of him gagging and coughing made shivers tickle up Peter’s spine from his tailbone. As he gazed down into Cal’s face, he couldn’t tell if the extra wetness in Cal’s eyes was from the shower or tears. 

“Enough showering.” He reached past Cal to turn off the water, then helped him to stand. He towed Cal into the bedroom, flicked a towel out over the covers, and then shoved Cal backwards onto it. The satisfied smile on his face made Peter grin. “Sexy boy.” He’d meant to sound accusing, but the words came out full of worship.

“Am I?” Cal’s simper returned as his knees spread. Peter crawled between his legs and covered his mouth with a demanding kiss. He rubbed against Cal, then started to grind as fingers tangled in his hair. When he felt Cal’s legs wrap around his waist, he gave Cal’s thigh a sharp slap and grinned at how he writhed in response.

“What a slut you are,” he purred into Cal’s ear, then slapped him again.

“Mm, more...”

“Ask me nice.” He sucked on Cal’s neck, then bit down when his lips found shoulder.

“Ah!” Cal’s voice went high and breathy. “Please, Sir.”

“Please what, dirty boy?” He gave Cal another, sharper slap. 

“I want it, Sir. I want you in me, please!” Cal’s whine wrapped around a cord of tension running from somewhere near his belly button and pulled down, down, down.

“Up for me,” he purred, “that’s it...” Cal moaned as he slipped in, making him shiver. He pinned Cal’s wrists down above his head as he started thrusting.

“I want it...ah, please, like that...mmmmn... _Peter!_ ”

...

He couldn’t help marveling at how right it felt with Cal nestled against him under the blanket. He stroked Cal’s back, just to get him to cuddle closer and was rewarded with a happy sigh.

“Night Petey.”

“Night you.” He was out the moment he closed his eyes.


End file.
